


The Road is Dark and it's a Thin, Thin Line

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Tougher Than the Rest 'Verse [2]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Morning After, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As promised, Alan comes over after work.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	The Road is Dark and it's a Thin, Thin Line

When Sam gets up to his apartment, he stumbles through his living room without bothering to turn on the light. There's nothing for him to trip on in here, anyway. He's barely moved into this place, and of the handful of furnishings he brought with him, almost all of them are in the bedroom. Out here there's just the coffee table, and a couch buried in boxes.

He navigates the open center of the room easily, crosses the threshold of his bedroom and kicks the door closed behind him.

He doesn't expect to sleep tonight. He doesn't _want_ to sleep tonight. He'd rather bask for a while, because he feels fucking awesome. He can still feel Alan's hands all over him, the perfect ache where Alan's fingers opened him up, and right now sleep is the farthest thing from Sam's mind.

But one minute he's dragging his t-shirt over his head—tossing it onto his desk chair as he drifts towards his bed—and the next he's blinking awake to bright, stabbing sunlight from the un-curtained window. The night has evaporated behind him, and for an instant Sam is terrified he dreamed the whole thing.

Then he shifts and feels the chafe of having slept in denim—feels, too, the deep, reassuring ache that can only mean one thing.

He's lying in an uncoordinated sprawl on top of his comforter, and he rolls so that his back is to the window. He's in no hurry to get out of bed. His head throbs dully, cranky at him for not pausing to hydrate on his way past the kitchen last night, but as hangovers go it's barely a blip on the radar.

He drank last night, sure. But mostly he was waiting. For the party to wind down, for the hours to tick by, for the buzz of the alcohol to plateau out and leave him warm and brave but mostly clear-headed.

Right up until he stepped into that phone booth, he wasn't sure he'd really do it. But then the coins were in his hand, and the slot was _right there_ , and Alan's pager number is always the first thing Sam wants to dial.

And of course Alan came for him. Sam never doubted that part. It was everything else that had the potential to blow up in his face.

And almost did. Christ, Sam thinks about the look in Alan's eyes—the breathless, crushing guilt—and it's almost enough to make him regret last night. Except he's too selfish, too warm and satisfied, and he knows Alan will be back.

Alan's never broken a promise yet—not one he's made to Sam—and it doesn't even occur to Sam to worry that he might not show.

He's got plenty of other worries to occupy his mind. Worries about the talk Alan is determined to have when he arrives. Worries that Alan is going to change his mind and try to reject Sam all over again. Worst of them all, worries that Alan will have spent the entire interim panicking and shutting down until he's locked so far inside himself Sam can't reach him.

It's possible Sam didn't think this through as well as he should have.

But Sam's not good at _thinking_ where Alan Bradley is concerned, and even as he finally drags himself upright—as the movement sets off the low, pleasant ache in his ass—he knows he doesn't regret a single damn thing.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam has already set the shower running when he moves to strip out of his jeans, but he freezes with the denim just below his hips when he catches sight of the bruises marring his skin.

Alan's hands were there, he thinks. Alan's hands, holding on so tightly that Sam can see the evidence right before his eyes. The thought is enough to make Sam's pulse pick up and his face flush, and suddenly he's seeing last night through the vivid lens of fresh memory.

Alan's skin, his voice, his mouth. Alan's hands and fingers—

Even staring at the undeniable smudge of bruising just above his hipbones, Sam can't quite wrap his head around it.

"Fucking hell, Alan," he murmurs, low and appreciative, and finally finishes stripping down, tossing the jeans aside and stepping beneath the warm spray of the shower.

Of course he jerks off. He thinks of Alan the entire time.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's a weekday, but Sam doesn't bother going to school. He's been mostly good about attendance this year—it's his senior year, after all, so he might as well do _something_ right—and he doubts any teachers will ding him for a skip so close to the finish line.

Barely two months to graduation. God, he can't wait to get out. There's still college on the horizon, but for all that he's already sent in his confirmation to Caltech, Sam's not thinking about that yet.

Instead of school, Sam hits the street and makes his way back towards West Seventh. He makes the trip on foot. He's got plenty of time to kill, and Sam has always found it easier to think when he's moving.

Thinking still doesn't come easy today. He's a little too caught up in anticipation. He's busy wondering what Alan will say when he walks in the door.

Sam always figured getting what he wanted would squash some of the needy distraction that's always hovering at the edges of his thoughts. Turns out it just makes him that much more aware of it.

He knows what Alan tastes like now. It's possible Sam will never be able to string together a coherent train of thought again.

But West Seventh is a long walk from Sam's apartment, and moving _does_ help. By the time he reaches his bike Sam has finally managed to quiet his mind and process some of his muddled thoughts. It helps that the sky is calm and overcast as he watches the alternating patches of grass and sidewalk and road pass smoothly beneath his feet.

He knows Alan will come over as promised. He knows Alan's defenses will be up—that Alan might even try to backpedal and label last night some kind of fluke. He knows that even if Alan walks into his apartment open to the idea of anything happening between them again, the burden will be on Sam to prove it's a good idea.

Or at least not a terrible one.

Sam's bike is exactly where he left it, kickstand down and tire snugged right up to the curb, and as he climbs astride the seat he starts to wonder what convincing Alan will take.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Alan doesn't buzz at the front door when he arrives, but Sam doesn't expect him to. There's a reason Alan has his pass code and a copy of his key.

But he _does_ knock instead of walking right in to Sam's apartment, and when Sam opens the door to the hallway he finds Alan standing there with his jacket over one arm, a box of pizza in his hand.

"You actually brought pizza," Sam observes with a smirk, stepping aside and gesturing Alan through the door.

"I said I would," Alan says blandly, shoulder brushing against Sam's on his way past. "Besides, I doubt you have anything in your fridge that normal people would consider food."

Sam closes the door and watches Alan look helplessly around the living room.

Amusement turns Sam's smirk into a softer smile, and he gives it a moment longer than he probably should before coming to Alan's rescue. There's nowhere to sit in here besides the floor. And in the tiny nook that passes for a dining room beyond, there's no table yet. Just a single folding chair leaning up against one wall.

"Here," Sam finally says, drawing Alan's attention. He shifts the coffee table out of the corner and pulls it towards the center of the room, leaving ample space to sit back against the couch beside it.

"Do you have plates?" Alan asks.

"Paper ones," says Sam. "Sorry. I've got a real set of flatware, believe it or not, but they're still in the box which is… um… somewhere." His eyes dart to the pile of cardboard boxes stacked along the walls in the dining nook. "I'll get the stuff, you just… make yourself comfortable."

Alan rolls his eyes, and Sam moves through the vacant dining room and into the narrow kitchen. He grabs plates, napkins, and two beers out of the fridge. When he returns to the living room, he finds Alan sitting in front of the debris-covered couch, pizza box open and perfectly centered on the low wooden coffee table.

Sam sets the plates and napkins down, then twists off the caps on both beers.

When he sits and tries to hand one off to Alan, all he gets is a disbelieving stare.

He sets the drink on the coffee table in front of Alan instead, and takes a deliberate pull from his own bottle. Alan is still staring at him when he sets the drink aside, and Sam inclines his body towards Alan, tucks one knee up against his chest.

"Oh, come on," Sam says, corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "You didn't really think my badgering you about tequila had anything to do with the alcohol, did you? Alan, I've had a fake I.D. since I was fourteen."

"Of course you have," Alan mutters darkly. But he reaches for his drink and takes a sip. Holds the bottle in his hand and lets it dangle from his fingers, arm resting on one raised knee.

He doesn't reach for the pizza. Neither does Sam. The silence that settles between them is tense and expectant.

Sam tries to hold his tongue. He doesn't want to be the first one to speak. But Alan stares stubbornly, silently ahead, and eventually Sam can't hold it in.

"You're not backing out on me, are you?"

He sees Alan's jaw tighten, his throat work in a heavy swallow, and when Alan's eyes find him they're shadowed and intense. There's determination there, too, and Sam holds his breath, unsure of just what that spark of purpose portends.

"I'm not backing out," Alan says. "I just… don't know where to start."

Sam exhales, slow and quiet and relieved. That's one worst case scenario avoided, at least.

"Let's start simple," he says. "How was work?"

Alan actually laughs at that, short and sharp. He shakes his head as he says, "Work was terrible, as you can damn well imagine."

Sam _can_ imagine. He can picture Alan at his desk, staring off into space, blinking in surprise at the belated realization that someone has knocked on his door and been talking to him for the past three minutes.

Sam resists the urge to say, ' _good_ ,' and instead responds, "I bet it was."

Alan's eyes find him, gaze shifting cautiously back to Sam's face.

"Sam, are you still… Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"You can't seriously need to ask me that."

But Alan looks determined—and a little scared, Sam realizes—and says, "You don't owe me anything. What we did last night… It doesn't have to happen again."

"It _better_ happen again," Sam says, voice rising abruptly. He forces himself to scale it back, to speak calmly when he continues, "Look. I know you're convinced this was all some enormous lapse in judgment, but Alan… I _wasn't_ that drunk. You _didn't_ take advantage of me. And honestly, it's kind of embarrassing how long I've wanted to get my hands on you, so I'd appreciate if you'd cut me a little slack."

Alan's eyes fall to the floor, and it's a long moment before he finally raises them again. Sam can read the question in his gaze all too well. ' _Why me_?' Alan's expression says. But that's territory they covered last night, and Alan must know better than to voice the question out loud, because he holds his tongue.

"Could we maybe fast forward to the part where you believe that I want this?" Sam asks.

Because if they have to talk around _this_ point for the next hour—if Sam has to convince Alan of his sincerity all over again—he's going to be seriously pissed off. Especially if he's not allowed to climb into Alan's lap in order to do it.

The lingering fear in Alan's eyes finally gives ground, though, and a reluctant smile edges across his face.

"Stubborn," Alan mutters, raising his bottle to his lips and taking a sip of beer. His body is already angling more towards Sam, maybe unconsciously, and Sam ignores his own drink in favor of studying Alan's profile.

It's strange being able to do this—to look without fearing discovery. Alan fidgets a little under his scrutiny, clearly uncomfortable with the intensity of Sam's attention, but Sam has nothing to hide now, and the thought sends an unguarded thrill along his skin.

"Does that mean we can move on now?" he asks.

"It means we need to figure out what the hell we're doing here," says Alan. He looks at Sam again, and there's unmasked intensity in his face, his posture. Every hint of hesitation is gone, replaced with something new and fierce as he locks eyes with Sam and says, "I don't need to tell you how many ways this could go wrong."

"I know," Sam says. Alan doesn't just mean between them—though of course even there they face all kinds of dangerous potential. He means the media. He means Encom. He means the fact that both of them live exposed to the public eye in a way that could tear their reputations apart if anyone ever found out about this—Alan's especially, Sam thinks, and forces himself to ignore a guilty twinge at the thought.

"We have to be careful," Alan says.

"We will be," says Sam. "I know how to keep a secret." Alan's eyes are piercing, somber, and Sam adds, "I know what's at stake here, Alan."

Alan nods and pushes his glasses higher on his nose. He looks like he's considering taking them off, but the glasses stay right where they are. He runs his free hand through his hair in a restless gesture, and the strands—more white now than gray—fall distractingly through his fingers.

As far as Sam is concerned, that's not goddamn fair. But he squares his shoulders and forces himself to focus.

"You're still in school for another seven weeks," Alan says.

"Yes," Sam concedes.

He wonders what Alan will say about that. He wonders if more misplaced apologies are coming.

He's surprised when Alan locks him with a steely look and—voice low and even—says, "Don't fuck it up, Sam."

"Jesus, Alan," Sam mutters, split between the bizarre urge to laugh and a sudden tightness in his chest. "Don't worry, I've got it covered."

"Good," says Alan. "And after that?"

"Caltech," Sam says. Alan's expression softens, and Sam adds, "I turned in my confirmation and deposit a couple weeks ago." He's not sure why he didn't mention it sooner. Maybe because it's his dad's Alma Mater. Maybe it's the way he feels strangled and apprehensive when he thinks about starting school there next fall.

"Congratulations," Alan says quietly. Sam gives a smile that's only a little forced.

"Thanks," he says, and wonders what comes now.

Alan doesn't speak up again immediately. A new silence settles between them, and it makes Sam wonder if Alan is gathering his thoughts for a final volley.

But the silence persists, and finally Sam asks, "Are we good?"

Alan is quiet a moment longer, and finally nods.

Sam feels a shift in the air around them, a change in energy as the tension in his own body switches to something more pleasant—anticipation and heat. Alan just conceded the field. He just gave the all-clear, and for a moment Sam is simply overwhelmed by the realization that he can actually have what he wants.

The instant his body recovers from the paralysis of wanting to do everything at once, he moves.

" _Sam_ —" Alan gasps as he's tackled to the floor, drink tipping out of his hand and beer splashing the carpet.

Sam laughs, grabs for the bottle and rights it beneath the coffee table even as he settles astride Alan's hips. Alan lies awkwardly splayed beneath Sam, sprawled on his back, elbows braced uncertainly behind him. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, his mouth agape. The sight sends a pulse of filthy, needy heat through Sam's blood.

Sam leans back, balancing his weight towards his heels, and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt. His shirt isn't the only article of clothing he wants to do away with right now—his jeans are already well on their way to unbearably tight—but it's the first priority, and he arches his back as he drags the thin cotton material over his head and discards it carelessly behind him.

He finds Alan staring up at him, frozen and winded, and Sam's skin flushes in anticipation.

Sam shifts deliberately, thighs brushing Alan's sides, and then smiles—both at the way Alan's pupils dilate and at the fact that he can feel Alan growing hard between his legs.

Sam presses a hand to Alan's chest, over his heart, and pushes until Alan gets the hint and lets himself fall back.

"This is okay, right?" Sam murmurs, already presuming the answer as he leans down and presses his mouth to Alan's.

Alan parts his lips at the first coax of Sam's tongue, letting him in, letting him taste, and Sam makes an approving sound low in his throat. Alan's hands reach for him, fingers sliding through Sam's hair, and the touch is reverent but commanding. Sam changes the angle slightly, opens his mouth wider, lets Alan bring the kiss to him, and Jesus, he doesn't think he's ever going to get over the heady thrill that comes with having Alan touch him like this—Alan's tongue is in his mouth, Alan's body is a line of heat beneath him.

Sam's fingers, almost of their own volition, find the knot of Alan's tie and start loosening it, tugging it down, undoing the knot so that he can pull the material smoothly out from Alan's collar and toss it aside.

His fingers find the top button of Alan's shirt and immediately start negotiating their way down.

When Sam finally pulls back—just for air, maybe just to see his handiwork—he hums approval. Alan's hair is mussed, his lips already slightly swollen, and most of his shirt buttons have already fallen away beneath Sam's determined fingers, offering a glimpse of skin behind the gaping fabric. Alan's glasses sit askew, and Sam smiles as he leaves off Alan's buttons for a moment and takes hold of the delicate frames.

  


[  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/dreamlittleyo/pic/00101bbk)

  


He wonders if he should say something here. Something glib and clever that will take the dazed look off Alan's face and replace it with a more amused expression.

But Sam likes the way Alan is looking at him right now. And the tension in the room is far from unpleasant, so Sam just folds the glasses silently and sets them on the coffee table beside the open, ignored box of pizza. Alan's eyes hold riveted to his face as Sam reaches for the last in the row of buttons and then drops across Alan's chest, moans in Alan's ear at the feeling of skin against skin.

He kisses Alan's throat, ghosts his fingers along Alan's sides beneath the lingering edges of fabric. His hips stutter forward, inadvertent at first, then in deliberate search of friction, and he gasps at the way that makes him feel.

Then Alan moves beneath him, sudden and purposeful. His hands on Sam are forceful in a way that makes Sam's breath catch in his throat, and he drags Sam's body flush against him, pressing their erections together with unmistakable intent.

Sam gasps, but the sound is cut short when Alan claims his mouth roughly in a renewed kiss. Sam would press closer if it were physically possible, and he groans into Alan's mouth, not caring that he sounds desperate and needy. He can't spare the energy for concerns like dignity with Alan's hand pressing like a command into the small of his back, Alan's fingers bruising restless possession into his skin through the denim of Sam's jeans.

Fuck, Sam is starting to hate these jeans. But he can't figure out how to get out of them without putting too much unwanted space between their bodies, so instead he kisses Alan back all the more fiercely, head spinning with the unwelcome need for air.

Eventually the need for oxygen wins out, and Sam draws breath in ragged gasps as Alan lays a teasing trail of kisses down his throat.

"Jesus, Alan," Sam breathes. Alan's mouth moves lower, then stops at the base of Sam's throat—and Sam gasps a sharp, startled " _Ah_!" as the kiss turns suddenly rough, teeth closing on his skin lightly at first, then harder when Sam doesn't pull away. Alan sucks a deliberate bruise into Sam's skin—has to be deliberate, placed as it is, so low no one will see it beneath the collar of Sam's shirt—and Sam arches, neck thrown back, submitting instinctively.

Christ, he'll be wearing this bruise for days, and the thought makes his face flush hot.

Alan pulls back too soon, and when Sam glances down he sees Alan staring at the spot his mouth just relinquished—admiring his work, if the glint in his eyes is anything to go by.

Sam finds it remarkably difficult to capture enough air to form words, but he curls down over Alan's chest anyway, nosing at his jaw, biting lightly at the lobe of his ear.

"There's lube in my nightstand," Sam whispers.

Whatever he expects in response to the words, instant stillness isn't it. Alan's hips, meeting him with such maddening friction before, fall motionless, and the rest of his body follows suit.

Sam backs off, immediately but reluctantly, and braces himself on one arm as he looks down into Alan's suddenly unreadable face.

"What is it?" Sam asks, terrified that he's fucked everything up all over again.

"Sam, I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't do that."

"Do what?" Sam asks. He blinks, confused and uncertain and still painfully turned on. Alan is doing _just fine_ , thanks, and Sam can't figure out what he—

Oh.

"Fuck me?" Sam checks. Alan doesn't flinch, but his eyes tighten in a way that tips his hand anyway.

Sam stares at him a moment, not sure what to make of this new information. From the insistent way Alan's erection is still nudging between Sam's thighs, he's pretty sure it can't be that Alan doesn't _want_ to. But Alan is watching him so carefully now, and his hands on Sam's body have gone utterly still.

"You're serious," Sam says. "Alan, this isn't—… You get that I actually _want_ this, right? I wouldn't be offering if I thought only one of us would get off on it. Trust me, having your dick inside me? Not really a hardship. High on my list of priorities, in fact."

And Alan _must_ be interested, god, his hips give an aborted stutter at Sam's words despite the deliberate stillness steadying his body.

But Alan's expression remains impenetrable, careful and blank, and he swallows and shakes his head.

"I know," Alan says. "It's not that."

"Then what?" Sam presses. And maybe it's not fair of him to make Alan try and put it into words right now—this isn't really an ideal moment for thoughtful discourse on the pros and cons of penetrative sex—but it's not fair for Alan to just throw this at him out of left field either, and Sam needs to know.

Some of the cautious blankness falls away, and suddenly Alan's expression is quiet and pained.

"Sam, you're eighteen," Alan says. His eyes say more. They say, ' _You're my best friend's son_.' They say, ' _I'm supposed to take care of you_.' Sam is grateful Alan doesn't voice either of those things aloud, though—so grateful he holds his tongue as Alan continues, "I'm not backing out, I swear. But that's a line I can't cross."

Disappointment wars with guilt in Sam's chest, and this time he knows better than to push. Alan is still hard between Sam's legs—his hands are still holding on tightly enough that Sam genuinely believes Alan hasn't changed his mind—but there's a new vulnerability flashing behind Alan's eyes, and Sam suddenly just _knows_. He knows if he pushes Alan too far on this one, he'll do irreparable damage to Alan's soul.

Sam doesn't particularly believe in souls, but he doesn't have to. He never wants to hurt Alan that way.

"Hey," Sam says, forcing a smile. "Relax, would you? It's okay." So Alan won't fuck him. That's not such a big deal. Sam can think of plenty to do besides that—he's always been creative.

He leans into Alan's space slowly enough to allow for protest, and when Alan doesn't try to argue, Sam kisses him.

It's a different kiss than before. Intimate and slow, cautious as he lets his mouth move over Alan's, feeling the tension drain away as Alan comes back to life beneath him.

When Sam breaks away it's not for air this time, but instead to trail deliberate kisses down Alan's chest. He shifts his weight as he moves, slides lower along Alan's body, giving himself more room to maneuver as he kisses farther down, over Alan's ribs and stomach.

"What are you doing?" Alan gapes as Sam settles between his legs and reaches for the fly of Alan's perfectly tailored pants.

"I told you I'd use my mouth next time," Sam says with a grin.

There's no belt to contend with. Just the button, the zipper, and then Sam is tugging fabric down Alan's hips, freeing Alan's flushed cock from the confines of his pants and dark briefs.

"Brace yourself," Sam says with a smirk, then closes his lips around the head.

Alan gasps something unintelligible, eyes falling closed and head dropping back with a thump. Sam takes Alan farther into his mouth, savoring the feel—the taste and weight—of Alan's cock on his tongue. Alan reaches for him, hands sliding into Sam's hair, a tightening hold at the nape of Sam's neck, the base of his skull. Alan's fingers shiver, grip harder then loosen their hold, as though Alan is struggling with himself.

Sam braces one hand on Alan's thigh, curls his other hand around the base of Alan's cock. He plays his tongue over the length in his mouth, teases at the slit, and Alan gasps and shudders, legs bending and bracketing either side of Sam's body as Alan plants his feet against the floor, clearly struggling not to let his hips thrust forward.

Sam hums, low and appreciative, and strokes downwards with his hand as he takes Alan even deeper.

Alan shouts and it sounds like Sam's name, and this time he doesn't manage to stop his hips from bucking upwards—or his hands from pulling Sam forward, down harder on his length—and when Sam feels the head of Alan's cock nudge at the back of his throat, he suppresses his gag reflex, relaxes his muscles—

And still chokes, because much as he wishes he had the skill for it, deep throating isn't a talent he's managed to hone.

"Sam," Alan starts, apology lacing his voice as his hands abruptly let go.

But Sam's not in the mood for apologies right now, and he draws off of Alan's cock just long enough to regain his breath—just long enough to cough and swallow and regain his focus. Then he licks a taunting stripe from base to tip, before parting his lips and taking Alan back into his mouth.

Alan's hands hover uncertainly, and Sam pulls off to growl, "Alan, god, it's _fine_. Fuckin' touch me already." When Sam goes back down, Alan's hands don't hesitate.

He takes Alan as deep as he can, stroking faster now, firmer, as he hollows his cheeks and urges Alan towards the orgasm looming just seconds away. Alan groans, voice thick with gravel and arousal, and when the first salty spurt of fluid hits Sam's tongue, Sam doesn't stop.

Alan's fingers tighten in his hair, an unforgiving grip, and as he comes, Sam closes his eyes and swallows.

Sam's expression is bright and smug as he moves back up Alan's body and straddles him again. Satisfaction flares warmly in his chest, strong enough that for a moment it even competes with the straining intensity of Sam's own mounting arousal. He nuzzles at Alan's jaw, kisses his rushing pulse point, and barely resists the urge to leave a mark of his own.

Alan's chest rises and falls raggedly beneath Sam's hand, and Sam watches him blink at the ceiling, watches as Alan slowly gets it together.

Alan finally meets Sam's eyes, and his voice is gruff as he asks, "What do you want me to do?"

Sam grins wide at the question—at the heat he can still hear coloring Alan's voice even in the wake of orgasm—and he leans in close.

"Just kiss me," he says. But even as he reclaims Alan's mouth, he takes Alan's hand and guides it between their bodies. He presses Alan's palm against the bulge of Sam's own dick, still trapped and aching behind denim, and he can't swallow back the groan that escapes him at the contact.

Alan licks the groan from his mouth and cups Sam obligingly through his jeans. He offers just enough pressure to be maddening, and Sam bucks forward into the touch.

He breaks away on a curse when Alan rubs harder, then gasps in surprise as Alan surges forward, up, making the world tilt sharply as he reverses their positions in the narrow space between couch and coffee table—as he puts Sam on his back.

Sam opens his mouth to speak—to say what, he doesn't know—but he can't manage the trick. He's suddenly too busy gasping around Alan's tongue, arching his back as Alan's nimble fingers make quick work of Sam's fly and reach past—as Alan's hand closes around him. The air of the room feels cool on the heated length of Sam's dick, and he thrusts into the circle of Alan's fingers, half mad with the need to come.

But instead of stroking him to climax—instead of getting a firmer grip and bringing Sam over the edge like he needs—Alan simply stops.

Christ, Sam is so close, he can feel the edge closing in, he's _right there_ —

But Alan hasn't just stopped. He's tightened his hold at the base of Sam's cock—deliberately forcing him back from the edge—and Sam jerks away from the kiss, an unforgiving stream of curses trailing off his tongue.

"What the _fuck_ , Alan?" he demands.

"Can you hold off a little longer?" Alan asks. Sam blinks up at him, willing his vision to clear, and the look he finds in Alan's eyes is bright and considering.

He wants to say no. He wants to tell Alan to fucking _finish_ it already, because he's going to go out of his mind if he has to wait another second.

But he finds himself nodding instead, breathless and curious.

"Good," Alan says. Then leans in close, close enough that his lips brush against Sam's ear when he whispers, "Don't come. Not until I say."

He takes his hand away entirely, and backs off, weight disappearing, and Sam is seriously reconsidering his choice here. But then Alan's hands grasp Sam's hips, strong and insistent, and Alan is urging Sam over, onto his knees. Sam obeys the wordless command in Alan's touch, settling forward on his arms and wondering where this is going.

The part of his brain inclined towards unrealistic fantasy has some pretty pronounced thoughts on the subject, but Sam knows better. Alan has already made it perfectly clear where he stands on the subject of fucking Sam. Which means he's got some other idea in mind.

Alan works Sam's jeans past his hips, down his thighs, baring Sam's ass to the room's cool air.

Then, just as Sam is considering opening his mouth and _asking_ what Alan plans to do, he feels the hot press of lips at the base of his spine, and oh.

 _Oh_.

Oh, _that's_ where Alan is going with this.

Sam's breath punches out of his chest in a surprised exhale, and he groans as Alan's tongue dips out to lick the salt from his skin. He groans louder as Alan's tongue moves farther south.

Alan's hands are forceful on Sam's hips—on the swell of Sam's ass as he shifts his grip and reaches his destination.

"Oh my _fuck_ ," Sam shouts when Alan's tongue breaches him, slick and hot. Sam's legs feel suddenly shaky, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasping ragged breaths as sensation rockets through him—pleasure, need, the stretch of muscle as Alan licks deeper.

Sam's whole body is shaking now, arousal spiking in his blood, singing beneath his skin, and Alan doesn't let up. He seems determined to take Sam apart, to break him down into his basest components, and Sam can't think through the desperate surge of want coursing beneath his skin.

Then one of Alan's hands relinquishes its hold, and Sam has all of an instant to wonder why before he registers the unmistakable sensation of a finger sliding into him alongside Alan's tongue.

And fuck, he thought he was lost before.

Alan's finger flexes inside him, and Sam makes a strangled sound.

For a second he's sure he's going to lose it—Alan's not even touching his dick right now, and it doesn't matter, Sam can feel the force of his orgasm closing in around him.

And then he remembers Alan's voice, low and whispering, commanding him not to come, and Sam swears and shakes and fights for enough air to speak.

" _Alan_ ," he gasps. "Alan, fuck, I can't—"

And Alan's free hand—the one _not_ currently occupied with pressing a second finger up into Sam's body—reaches forward between Sam's legs and closes tightly around the base of Sam's cock.

Sam sobs—a sound he'll deny to his grave if he can—as the pressure forces his orgasm back and holds it barely, reluctantly at bay.

"Please," Sam whispers. He's embarrassed at how needy he sounds—how breathy and fucked-out, just from Alan's tongue, his fingers, just from _this_.

But Alan must take pity on him, because between one breath and the next, Alan's tongue and fingers are gone—though his grip at the base of Sam's cock is unrelenting.

Then Alan moves behind Sam, shifting closer, until Sam can feel the warmth of Alan's body kneeling close behind him. Alan's hand grazes Sam's hip, thumb brushing over Sam's flank, and Sam's legs tremble with anticipation.

Then Alan's fingers slot roughly back into him, and Sam chokes back a shout. He clenches his teeth in an effort to swallow back a whole string of embarrassing noises as Alan's fingers twist deeper.

" _Now_ ," Alan murmurs, as he stills with both digits buried to the last knuckle—as he loosens his hold on Sam's cock and circles his fingers lightly around the shaft.

Sam makes an unintelligible sound, low and shocky in his chest, and the force of his climax overwhelms him. He's distantly aware of Alan's voice making reassuring sounds in his ear, the circle of Alan's hand coaxing him along, Alan's fingers spearing deep and perfect inside him. But every specific washes away in the wave of sensory overload that hits him now, and Sam doesn't know what words are coming out of his mouth—hell, he's not even sure they're English.

He loses track of the world, then. He can't keep up through the explosion of pure feeling as his orgasm whites out everything around him.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam doesn't think he falls asleep—he sure as hell doesn't mean to—but somehow, between one blink and the next, he finds himself in his bed.

Even the bare cover offered by the sheet is almost too warm, but when Sam shifts and stretches he realizes he's completely naked. Alan must have taken the liberty. Sam _really_ doesn’t mind.

Speaking of Alan—

"That good, huh?" Alan's voice comes from beside Sam, soft amusement, and Sam stops blinking at the ceiling and turns to meet Alan's eyes.

Alan is smiling. Sam considers that a good sign.

"If by 'good' you mean 'fucking mind-blowing', then yes. That was pretty good."

Alan regards him silently for a moment, head propped on his arm, gaze suddenly restless. His eyes focus somewhere below Sam's face, and it takes Sam a moment to realize Alan is staring at the base of Sam's throat—a spot he's pretty sure looks bruised all to hell right now, which is almost enough to drag him out of bed in search of a mirror to see for himself.

Almost, but not quite. First, his bed is awfully comfortable right now. Second, _Alan_ is in his bed, which makes getting out of it an unappealing proposition at best.

"Good," Alan says, sounding almost smug.

Sam shifts beneath the sheet, angling his body more directly towards Alan and looking up at him without trying to disguise his interest. Alan's eyes crinkle at the corners, smile going soft.

"You've done that before," Sam murmurs. He doesn't temper the jealousy in his voice, misplaced though it is. Of course Alan has done it before. He's got a hell of a head start. Sam can't very well be jealous of lovers Alan took before Sam even existed.

That's a surreal line of thought, though, not to mention one Sam has considered up and down a hundred times. He doesn't let it sidetrack him now.

"So have you," Alan points out. To his credit, he doesn't try to mask the jealousy in his eyes any more than Sam tried to hide his own a moment before. Which means at least they're on the same wavelength.

"Do me a favor and _never_ tell me about it?" Sam pleads.

"Only if you promise to return the favor."

"Done," says Sam. "Are you going to kiss me now, or what?"

Alan's free hand touches Sam's face, knuckles trailing over his cheek, and the reverence of the touch lodges Sam's heart firmly in his throat. He closes his eyes as Alan leans towards him, parts his lips when Alan's mouth covers his.

Alan tastes like Sam's cinnamon toothpaste, and his hand cups Sam's jaw as he takes the kiss deeper. Sam reaches for him, threads his fingers through the soft strands of Alan's hair, and god, he loves that he can do this. He loves that he can _have_ this.

He's getting turned on all over again, just from the feel of Alan's tongue in his mouth.

When Alan tries to pull back, Sam doesn't let him go. He grasps more demandingly at Alan's hair, uses his other hand to grab Alan by the bicep and drag him bodily closer. He doesn't have much leverage at this angle— _any_ leverage, really—but Alan cooperates readily enough.

When Alan is half blanketing his body, Sam lets go of his arm and covers the hand Alan still holds cupped along his jaw. Alan doesn't resist when Sam guides his hand away—guides it down—but when Sam presses their joined hands to the renewed swell of the hard-on between his legs, Alan breaks away from Sam's mouth with a disbelieving sound.

"You're kidding me," he says.

Sam presses Alan's hand more firmly in place, guiding his fingers into curling around Sam's very interested dick.

He kisses Alan's jaw and says, "Come on, Alan, where's your sense of adventure?"

"I think I left it in my other pants," Alan mutters, but he tightens his fingers around Sam's length and gives a measured stroke. "You realize it's barely been twenty minutes."

"Mmm," Sam agrees, arching into the touch. "Plenty of time."

"Jesus, Sam," Alan breathes. There's awe in his voice. And laughter. "If I'd known you were going to be completely insatiable—"

"Less talk, more groping," Sam interrupts. " _Ah_!" he gasps when Alan responds by pressing his thumb to the slit of Sam's cock.

"You're a monster, you know that?" Alan says.

"Maybe," Sam says, dragging Alan down for another kiss. This time when Alan draws back he looks winded—winded and a little like he might be making pretty good recovery time after all—and Sam can't resist adding, "But I'm _your_ monster."

"I suppose you are," Alan murmurs, and kisses him again.


End file.
